Everything You Can Think Of Is True
by barcorelle
Summary: A stolen object, a reluctant captive and the perils of magic. Hook gets more than he bargains for in his attempt to win over Emma.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: All things Once Upon A Time belong to ABC, Horowitz and Kitsis. No offence intended.**

Sunlight had already warmed the room when Emma turned and wavered from the dogged persistence of sleep. What it touched, from what she could make out in that scarce window of consciousness, was decidedly unfamiliar. If she had the will to the think more on it, she would have noticed that the walls around her were closer than they were at home, rounder, making the space lower and stranger still. The cover that draped her was also new, though the dissimilarity was so subtle as to be inconsequential. The weight of an unnatural lethargy was looming. In its approach, a lifetime of hard won instincts cowered. She turned on her stomach and pulled the pillow underneath her.

_Where am I?_

The beginnings of a very important observation untethered. Away from her, the question floated.

_Where else but here?_

The place where questions were answers and answers were questions and for once, Emma was anterior to the riddle that had become Storybrooke. She was filled with the calm and hope of promise. For here it was. She did not need a hat. She did not need a wardrobe. She only had to close her eyes to visit it. Truths, deceits, curses: the place that sleep was carrying her cared not for the lies of men and the duplicity of women. The more she gave in to it, the less she cared too. Emma felt elusive. Sensations reached out like hundreds of tiny hands clamouring for her attention and for a frantic moment she brushed against the world she was departing, caught the dank scent of the town harbour and a wink of metal before making her way back down. Back below where nothing could reach. Where she was immeasurable: everywhere at once and everywhere in between, as if she had climbed beanstalks into clouds, stared down dragons and walked the planks of pirate ships to tread waters whose currents pulled her further and further from whence she came. The immensity of this place was the mystery to which she longed to return. It may have been a memory long forgotten. It may have been the ocean or a steep and endless lake, the sky above her at night or a cloudless summer's day.

There were no limits until she heard a voice and from nowhere and nothing a figure appeared. She was long of hair and willowy, raising a hand above her head and beckoning and before Emma could place her or even find the words to speak, the vast and open dreamscape telescoped drastically. Bright, burning red, brighter than anything she could stand, flanked the horizon on which the woman stood. Urgent, windblown words scattered senselessly in the air that had suddenly filled with smoke. It was too soon to go. There were too many things left unsaid, but this world, and her vital place in it, was dying.

Emma took a hungry, final breath and dived deep.

* * *

Of all the swindles, wiles and deceptions the pirate kept up his sleeve for a day such as this, it was once again magic, the kind that could not be conjured or concealed, that hoodwinked him. Not that he had expected such a slippery thing to be graspable – even Cora had over-estimated her grip. Whereas the witch and the wimp suffered from the delusion of their own grandeur, he maintained a strict code in all his dealings with dark arts, wise to the transaction that every victory and evasion entailed.

Grandeur was the illusion that Killian wielded, and it had proven the smarter subterfuge for three hundred ages. To brandish power with full knowledge that its titles and rewards were as changeful as the beliefs of every man, woman and beast that desired it. Those unwilling to fight for what they wanted most turned to enchantments as if they were entitled. As if no one else had suffered so. The truth was far from it.

For every vial of faery dust there was a counter spell. For every curse a saviour fated to break it and so on and so forth until magic duped each and every one with its lure of glory and redemption. That was the difference oft overlooked in this game they were all playing: Killian yearned for neither, and he never changed. It was a nature his demeanour made every effort to belie. Charm, artifice and exaggeration guarded the cold steadfastness of his heart. There was no prior life from whence he harkened. As such, there was nought of substance or value for magic to endanger. Except, of course, his revenge, and thus far it had proven a stealthy companion, a shadow at the ready, pointing him in whichever direction he needed to go on a spur's moment, on a dying breath in the nick of time in worlds beyond the breadth of even his imaginings.

These were reassurances the pirate made to himself when it was brought home to him that there was not a single thing he could remember about Milah other than the fact that she was gone. Everything afterward he recalled with alacrity: the sick squeal of laughter, the dull sound of her body dropping on the boards and the fast, unrepentant instance of dismemberment. But the life he shared with her had vanished. This, perhaps, was the cruellest mystery of all, a tragedy he could no more blame on magic as he could himself for allowing it to happen in the first place.

If there existed a spell, a lake to revive, if there were a contract he could bind with his blood to reclaim such things…He would even give his heart, if it weren't the one thing left that cautioned him.

In such uncharted waters as these, a pirate needed more than his wits. He'd needed that compass. Unswerving bloodlust had never been a liability until he had to rely on the favours and enchantments of those around him to enable it. Without the ability to steal a heart he would have been condemned to a life of unfulfilled vengeance – a fate worse than death, Killian was sure. The temptation that such magic provided, however, was tempered by the laziness it invariably produced. Buoyed by the obstacles it removed and the luck it inspired, he'd let his self-serving agenda slip past the roguish mask, earning him the suspicion of Cora and the inconvenience of being bested by a novice. Thrice.

Between the latter's fledgling magic, the Queen, Cora and the sorcery of his nemesis, he was caught between a rock and several hard places. But in this world, in this time, as with the frustration he had suffered in many times and places past, Killian recalled the fable of the fowl and the egg. He felt his distrust of magic justified by the enigma the riddle turned upon. Whether, as with all things magic had the ability to take and create, it existed prior to humankind's want for it

What came first, precisely? The crocodile or the egg?

With the aid of his own devices, he could not sufficiently reckon, yet as he sat across from his berth in the belly of the _Jolly Roger_ he was sure, for the first time in a long while, that some clue to deciphering the conundrum lay dormant in the sleeping Swan girl.

So he bided her. Minutes traded for hours. Killian was a patient sort – he expected no less. For a while, there was little alteration until she murmured and turned and after some muddled consternation dropped face down, cradling his pillow as if it were beloved. In another lifetime, this might have amused him. Without an audience, he had no need for the facade and it was with some reluctance that he attended her, lifting not unkindly by the crook of her arm so that she was once again facing the planks of wood above. He checked her forehead with back of his hand, then glanced sternly at the half-empty ampoule left stoppered on his desk. He strode in its direction, planting his hands on either side of the stolen object, thinking long and seriously on the gamble he had ventured. How it had all come down to this. Magic, yet again

Breath gasped into the room and broke his reverie. Emma batted at herself and wriggled fitfully and he went to her again, minding her actions until they calmed of their own accord. Whomever she was fighting was a fair opponent as she'd made a mess of herself in the process. Unthinking, he leaned down and gathered her hair from where it had fallen across her face. He reset the lock behind her ear, his knuckles grazing the warm, downy skin under her jaw and lingering there for an interested second or two. She murmured sympathetically and shifted into him. It was a foolish gesture, he realised belatedly. Her safety may have been necessary to him, but her comfort was not. In fact, the nearer he got the more he was reminded that any cause he had to be worried about a single, golden hair on this… _saviour's_ head had disappeared as steadily as her retreating back on that godforsaken giant's lair. He hadn't survived Neverland by relenting to a pretty face and it was a land of many. Here, there was only one.

_You chose her. And the consequences of that decision…_

In defiance to Cora's criticism, he made to turn. Before he got the chance, her hand shot out and grasped his good one; clutching with considerable determination, firm enough for him to stare searchingly at her in stock-still anticipation. Emma's eyes remained shut and she swallowed as if on the verge of speech. She squeezed his wrist. On the precipice of this pause he strained, tilting, bending closer and closer

"_I_…_Can't-" _she stammered and the words deflated with a small puff of breath. He felt it on his cheek. It should of felt like betrayal. Oddly enough, it felt like regret.

Killian drew back. Some crossness had flared up in him at the intimacy of the situation – and his ill-timed weaknesses. Seeing the Swan girl at her most vulnerable was an objectively alluring sight, but he could not afford to be distracted by the intimation of her below him in the isolation of his cabin. If he had time to be honest with himself, if it proved at all helpful in the larger scheme of his machinations, he would admit his wariness of Emma stemmed as much from her disloyalty than it did any enjoyment he may or may not have experienced in her company prior to it. Still, he was careful not to look on her for too long, to reflect on the confounding familiarity of her person, how the lamp light cast a veil of such translucent strangeness upon her that she looked more like a creature than the bothered, eye-rolling irritant he knew her to be. Pale and silent, she seemed to him something sprung upon him in one of the lagoons he had so enjoyed skimming stones upon when he was younger and nameless and lost. He grimaced at this. Emma perhaps had a kin in the mermaids of Marooner's Rock, a bewitching yet treacherous species who would as easily smile at you, as they would draw a knife upon your neck.

Those mysterious mer-maidens had a soft spot for him, however, a frailty he had happily exploited. It was a trait he suspected Emma bore in one way or another seeing as she had yet to divulge his whereabouts. Whether this was the product of her morality or her fear was neither here nor there. The importance was that he had gotten to her before his crocodile. In his never-ending rampage to skin the beast, he had stumbled upon the most crucial instrument of all; the engineer of a demise so devastating it brought renewed and vivid meaning to the expression 'killing two birds with one stone'.

_I'm gonna let you in on a little secret…I'm pretty good at knowing when someone is lying to me._

A skill about as useful as a wooden sword, he deemed, and he'd been bruised enough times by it. With renewed smugness, he towered above her. Soon enough, his thoughts darkened. Smugness did not purchase time and as he regarded her supine form he let the weight of this particular misgiving fall upon him. If he was right about her, then her magic was the most slippery of all because it was untested. Unmatched. And she was beyond green. The gift was useless without conviction. For all she knew her abilities were tantamount to nightmares suffered and then forgotten. Her memory was the key.

A day was already squandered and he was beginning to doubt. Past the boundaries of Storybrooke he may have been protected, but there wasn't a mountain, let alone a world, her family was prepared to move in order to get her back – once they discovered that she was not where she was meant to be, sent off on that fool's errand by Rumplestiltskin.

There was a tiresome task ahead of him in the days he had left with her. One final performance before she could prove herself truly useful to him. Like all mortals, Emma needed to be won over by the righteousness of her magic for it to truly ignite. Her cynicism made his job trickier. No vanity or bluster was sufficient to sway Snow White's daughter into siding with him. He was sure that his actions thus far had served to caricature him further in her mind as a heartless automaton bent on retribution. The accuracy of this estimation was beside the point, and he was keenly aware of the uselessness of proving anything to the contrary. The Swan girl was many things and most of them infuriating, but stupid she was not.

What was required of the pirate went closer to a truth he wasn't entirely certain of himself. He had to appeal to her guilt, obviously, but it was a far subtler operation to have to point out that that their paths were now justifiably intertwined, that her identity, her exceptionality, was as much a product of her own life and choices as it was True Love, that the fates of the entire town now hinged on such decisions.

It was left to him to burden her with the weight of the lives of those she loved, to apply pressure to the wound of her greatest insecurities.

Or else all hope was lost.

* * *

Emma plummeted from sleep with a sob. It choked out of her painfully and when the sound expired, it was her frantic breathing that she heard above all else ricocheting about the room. The shapes and outlines of reality that floated into her vision were a disorder, like an undeveloped Polaroid. Groggily, she struggled upright, the blanket stuck to her skin, scanning the periphery, blinking and shivering uncontrollably. It was colder now. A dying lamp was beside her and across, there sat a chair with a leather flagon hanging off its back. She was slow to calculate the sum of these things but when she did she reacted fast, casting herself off the bed only to be tugged bluntly in return.

Around her ankle was a shackle.

With a groan, Emma fell back. She assumed nothing less from the unscrupulous Hook but expected much more from herself to be so effortlessly trapped. After a disorientated moment or two, searching in vain for the exact moment in which she had so perilously let her guard down, she tossed the coverlet off and inspected her restraint. The contraption was old fashioned. It wasn't hurting her but it was obstinate, and no measure of twisting, pulling and prising agitated it in the slightest. It was a battle she waged as much upon her vertigo as she did the cuff. When she practically drowsed off the side of the bed, it took all her effort to clamber upright and prop her head in her hands, counting each exhalation until some semblance of clear-headedness was restored. Her stomach growled. Her mouth was dry.

The overwhelming feeling was one of confusion. She was confused as to what day it was, what time, and where the hell his ship had taken her. Above all, she was baffled as to why he would even entertain the idea of her abduction. What possible use was she to him? What advantage did she provide? As far as she was aware, he had no dispute with her family. With her, yes, though he'd made it abundantly clear that she no longer warranted a spot on his exclusive list of People to Screw Over. There had to be a reason, a rationale. Hook was ruthless and opportunistic, yet he was cunning.

Emma was stumped. It was inarguably the most brainless oversight on her part to wait so long to confront him but then he'd all but disappeared, _Jolly Roger_ and all. If he was petty enough to prove a point to her, it seemed a very elaborate way to go about it, and a sizeable detour from his target. And besides, what wrong had she actually committed against him when he'd had the bean all along? Surely he'd moved on from what happened between them. No matter what he'd said to her, he would have done the same and several times over and with much less courtesy than she'd granted him.

_Actually, no._

She flinched at the recollection and focused instead on the predicament he had placed her in. Her thoughts were quick to target Gold. She supposed it all came down to him in the end, and she had been as ensnared as any other inhabitant in the web he had spun around their town. The insistence of her magic, however, was the one clause not included in his terms and conditions. The advent of her powers and the prospect of what they could ward was the catalyst for the unspoken truce that now suspended delicately between herself and the Dark One. While this made her exceedingly nervous, she nevertheless had in her possession a valuable bargaining chip if – and when – her friends and family were threatened. It was a likelihood she deemed Gold especially hesitant to wager on, now that he had Belle to consider.

_You let me handle the pirate, Miss Swan._

She knew better than to trust in the man's assurances but amid his feud with Hook and the entanglement of Regina and Cora, it had been communicated that her job was well and truly done. Yet following Gold's orders had invariably landed her here, once again a captive of her own, blind faith. It was the literal definition of a rock and a hard place.

These recriminations and suspicions continued to quarrel, consuming her attention so completely that she was oblivious to the shadow spilling underneath the cabin door. Hook seemed to pause for effect before stepping across the threshold and boy, oh boy, did Emma wish for some magic now. Perhaps a giant hand to slap the smirk that was waiting for her on his face. She would revel in the irony.

Without so much as a word, he closed the door behind him. There was another lamp swinging from his hook, unlit and he had taken leave of his coat. She watched him tensely. In place of a smirk he held an eerily blank expression. To camouflage him further, a darker, thicker beard had climbed the contours of his face and his hair was newly wet. He looked different, though no less precarious. If she hadn't been so incensed at the sight of him, she would have guessed fatigue.

He set the lamp down, and afterwards, shaking water from his billowy sleeves he followed suit, plonking down on the edge of the bed with a theatrical sigh and taking special care to jostle her.

Emma was incredulous, but she refused to react. Her voice was low and threatening, when it came to her.

"Henry-"

"Is with that insufferable dullard you call Charming," he finished. Like she was a child he was chastising

"If you hurt him, Hook, I swear to god you'll-"

"You'll what?" He struck a match upon the bedpost and busied himself with the oil lamp. "Glare me to death?"

"_Hook._"

He waved his free hand. "Henry is safe."

"And Cora?"

"Plotting, I imagine. We're not exactly on speaking terms."

Silence relayed her doubt. She continued to watch him as he continued to fidget with the flame, paying no heed to her scrutiny. Did he think her a complete idiot? This cavalier act of his was so transparent she wondered what the real fakery was, certainly not this pretence of a conversation, humouring her with genteel affectations as if she were a twittering maid in a nineteenth century satire. It was clear to Emma that he was guarding something. Clearer still was the awareness that whatever information he deigned to reveal to her over the course of this little abduction would be a similar design to the lies he was always spinning. Different words, dressed up in different attire. There was not a single syllable he could utter than she would believe.

_Try something new, darling. It's called trust_.

She had no patience for this game.

"They'll find me," she said, speaking slow and carefully now as if he were the dullard. "You do know this, don't you?"

He shrugged.

"I don't think you understand me," she clarified, full of the surety of her sentiments. "It's only a matter of time."

"Hmm." At this, he was amused, and he toyed with his response as a way of toying with her. "I understand you perfectly. The question, Swan, isn't whether they'll find you but whether..." he dropped his voice and sidled in, "_you want to be found_."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Emma snapped.

His hook gestured lazily in the air. _Look around_, it said. And then it dawned on her.

Sick panic churned her stomach. Anger strengthened her resolve.

"Right. The boundary. Of course," she sighed, bracing against the tidal wave of indignation that had banked upon her. It was just her luck that someone as shrewd as Hook had evaded Regina's curse. She wondered what kind of contract he had signed to attain the privilege. "So you brought me here to what? Taunt me? Jeopardise my family?" The possibilities were endless. "Am I supposed to beg for your forgiveness? Bargain for their safety? Would could I possibly have to offer you?"

Hook rubbed nonchalantly at his jaw, cocking his head as if considering a host of inappropriate contributions. Emma stared at him firmly and dared him to even _try_ and voice them.

"This?" Her hand flew agitatedly between herself and her captor. "You think this is my cue to _banter_ with you? Think again. For both our sakes, let's just skip to the part where you tell me exactly what I need to do to get back to Storybrooke and you continue on your merry way to exacting revenge upon the man whose wife _you_ stole in the first place."

As ever, her aim was true but he slung neither insult nor arrogance back at the provocation. The pirate had stilled instead, narrowing with a look of such pure, uncomprehending contempt it made her heart involuntarily stutter and start. Every aspect of him was recoiled, drawing so much into himself that he took the air along with him. It practically evaporated. He shuttered himself entirely.

Emma remained intent. There were at least two sides to every story, and Hook's tale of woe was no different. Gold had intimated as much when he'd entrusted her to find his son. She knew the pirate's shattered pride wasn't the only collateral damage incurred that fateful day aboard the _Jolly Roger._

His reaction added complication to her judgement and more truth than she cared to admit him was exposed in its deflection. Writ large beyond the severity of his face was a veritable history of loss. She glimpsed the unhinged delusion of his revenge, its hunger and brutality and the long held sacrifices and deprivations that kept his bravado in check. Plainly enough, Emma saw fear. It was feral and childish and full of hurt and to her utmost surprise, she felt a pang of sorrow on his behalf. As inappropriate as the realisation was, it occurred to her that he was utterly alone.

"As you wish," was all he said and, swiftly, he stood, retrieving his flagon from the chair and hastily taking a swig. Askance, he flung the bottle at her lap.

"Drink," he ordered coolly. "Then, after we've come to an agreement, you'll be free and we can both be on our…_merry _way. "

Dazed, Emma estimated the offering. She untwisted the nozzle and sniffed.

"You've been asleep for nearly a day. _Drink_."

Thirst was undeniable and her tentative sips turned hastily to gulps. She finished the entire contents with an unguarded heave, wiping the spill from her mouth and licking her lips. In the interim, Hook had turned. Inertly, and without regard for her privacy, he watched. Emma felt unduly exposed. His intentions were disconcertingly unreadable. In fact, the longer he continued to stare, the less certain it became he was seeing her at all.

Before she could verify he answered by fetching a key from a pocket and unlocking the fetter at her ankle. Though she didn't show it, Emma was taken aback. She rounded doubtfully at him.

"Is this some sort of trick?"

"Ah," and he appeared to brighten a little at this. "For once your pathological distrust has proven itself an asset."

Cheerfully, Hook elaborated. "Enchantments. Pesky things when they're turned against you, but bloody effective in keeping people out. Or in this case, _in_."

Whatever hope had been stirring inside her, cringed. If it was a bluff, it was judged expertly. He knew the risk would be too great on her part to tempt it

"You'll forgive the poetic licence." He gazed fondly at the shackle. "I'm afraid I couldn't resist."

The manipulation was more than she could tolerate and taking full advantage of the new and limited freedom he had permitted, she lunged. With all the mustered force of adrenaline, she grabbed him by his fancy lapels and shoved him down to the floor. She was quick to trap his arms. One knee pinned his leg, the other crouched astride him, ready to launch if needed – and she had a feeling she would. Her face was tenaciously close, her body, an obstacle.

"Now, now," he laughed, straining though predictably not putting up much of a fight. "I did say to neglect ceremony next time you accosted me, though if I knew you liked it rough, Swan, you only had to-"

"You better rethink that sentence," she hissed. Promptly, his mouth closed. "Now. You want something. You seem _convinced-"_ she dug her knee in, warningly. "I have it. But consider this for a moment…" She jutted back a fraction, whispered close to his ear: "Who do you think's gonna reach that little potion you have over there first?" A flash of surprise coloured his eyes. Emboldened, Emma leaned in. "You? ... Or me?"

She didn't wait for his guess. She had her hands on the vial before she'd even finished taunting him, springing to her feet and snatching it from his desk.

As quickly as ever, he dropped the feint and changed tact. The manner he bore toward her now was akin to a boxer in a ring, rising to his feet tentatively, hedging closer, assessing, cornering. She lifted the bottle higher in retaliation.

"Wait," he winced.

How the tables had turned.

"You don't know what you're doing."

"I know you drugged me!"

"No-" he neglected the word with an exasperated sigh. "It's not a drug."

In her hands, the item was innocuous, small. She tested its weight and experimentally, it dangled.

"Tick. Tock," she gritted out.

Both hook and palm were raised in concession but his eyes never left the vial. "Please. Just…" He cajoled her with a smile that, for once, suited him not. Seeing her displeasure, he straightened and appealed to her in another way, dropping all semblance of guile. His shoulders slumped and, lowering his head, he scoffed bitterly to himself. He scratched at his chin with his hook but the one hand clenched at his side remained white-knuckled. Finally and dispassionately, he spoke.

"The markings," he began. "At the base."

She vacillated hesitatingly. When she made no motion to indulge his instructions further, he implored her again.

"This is no trick. See for yourself."

Unwilling, unsure, Emma curled her hand around the object in question and brought it up to her line of sight. She was loath to take her attention off the pirate but her curiosity was eager and for the moment he was restrained. Sure enough, there were etchings on the underside. It was hard to see in the little light that was available.

"L. N…"

"Rather obvious," Hook commented.

"Is this supposed to mean something to me?"

"Mean? Or do?"

Her defences baulked at the insinuation. When she glared at him, she tried her best to appear unruffled and yet Hook had already claimed the advantage, going so far as to lord it over her by backing away and leaning sanguinely against the cabin wall. He brushed his collar, then folded his arms, the picture of mordant indifference.

"An interesting place, that pawn shop," he mused. "Full of…curiosities. For a land supposedly devoid of magic, there seemed to me an awful lot of magical objects just lying around in there. Ripe for the picking."

"The initials…" Emma prompted him menacingly.

"Ah yes. Well, you see, that's no curiosity at all. Lake Nostos, I believe they stand for. You may have heard of it, seeing as its how I gained passage to your world."

Her hand closed around the vial protectively. The memory of what took place prior to returning to Henry and the information Gold had rather begrudgingly disclosed, groped blindly for an explanation and came up with nothing. "But the Lake was just a portal."

"It is no mere portal. What you have in your hands is the key to everything."

Emma could not guess how. She furrowed her brow, which the pirate took as his cue to begin.

"Legend has it a great warrior returning home from war came across the lake and in his thirst and impatience drunk from its waters. One sip was enough to poison him with a sleep that spanned an eternity. When he woke, the world had changed. He was not who he was. The life he yearned for had passed unknowingly by. He was nameless, exiled. The past had abandoned him, and so, condemned by his oblivion and born from his rage, he summoned a curse upon the waters. To exact revenge on the world that had cruelly led him astray, he gave to the lake the greatest power of all: to return what was lost to those who strayed upon it after him. But," and here, Hook genuflected knowingly, "as in all magic, there lay a catch. The price of such a bounty would always be greater than the reward it pledged. Lured by a song so sweet and so familiar, mad men and priests, beggars and kings alike, went willingly into its depths. There, on their final breath, they beheld the promise of the places and people from which they were riven. It was in the guise of that which they loved most, that they met their demise."

"The siren," Emma surmised.

Interested in her response, he offered his next words thoughtfully. "Rumour has it, it was your father who slayed the temptress."

The image of David and the one she held of Prince Charming once again clashed. In her perplexity, she confronted the insufficiency of her knowledge and in kind, the prospect that above all people, it was Hook who was schooling her in the history of her parents and the great and important verve of their existence prior to her. That in itself would have been intolerable enough, had it not been for the suggestion she could sense in the story he was laying out. The tone of his voice had settled somewhat, becoming sombre and reflective. Without her notice, the tale he was weaving had spread out like a vapour between them, curling its way underneath her defences. She had relinquished control of the situation by listening, but more than that, she had given it willingly.

His relish in storytelling not withstanding, it was evident he held something of her future in his hand.

"The hearts of men are weak and many succumbed to the call of the siren, but in proving himself the better man, the best man of all, your father caused the lake and all its restorative powers to dry up. With it, the hopes of home held by lesser men were dashed. They never had a chance." Hook indicated the vial. "Until now."

Emma grew reflective herself. She sensed he was building to something of great and mutual significance. The leisurely route he was taking to get to his point had, however, given her mind leave to indulge in more speculative pursuits. The tranquillity of her anger was disturbed by his voice and, openly, she pondered the man in front of her. _Nameless, exiled; abandoned_. She felt something like a knot lacing in her stomach at what his words implied and the concepts they sought to merge. Every second that passed facing him, pulled it tighter.

Empathy was an untimely luxury.

"None of this has yet to explain why I'm here, what you want, and exactly what I'm holding here, but please," Emma mocked, "Take your time."

Hook frowned. "You're not exactly going anywhere."

"What makes you so sure I want destroy this thing?"

"You wouldn't dare."

"No?" It was as much a question as it was a threat.

"Did you ever wonder why, when you broke the curse, it didn't return your family to their rightful home?" he asked, intent on her, advancing with each pause. "Why, out of all the people in the realm, your son came into the care of the Evil Queen? How, in a land without magic, there exists to this day a barrier with the power to erase the memory of all who dare to cross it?"

Emma swallowed painfully at his nearness, his allegations, and the faculty they both possessed to keep her still. Calmly, his hand unfolded. It bridged the gap between them.

"The lake, Emma." He nodded for the vial she could do nothing but stare at. "He had the water all this time. One thimbleful in the well is all it would take to send everyone home. What was once lost could be returned. The barrier would no longer exist."

In the tumult of this revelation, Emma clung to her cynicism like a crutch. She held the bottle tight. "If it's so simple, why don't you do it? Defeat Gold and break his curse? You get your revenge. You get to be the hero."

He gave a look as if the answer were obvious. "Because I'm not magic."

_Magic_.

As soon as she heard the word, she shrank. She had witnessed magic, felt magic, feared it and exercised it, but the thought struck her now that she had yet to believe in the magnitude of her own. And what Hook was essentially telling her, that she was the key to not only his crocodile, but the hopes and dreams of those nearest and dearest to her, rested on that very phenomenon. She was not at all happy that their paths had intercepted so fatefully and yet, here they were, standing at the same crossroads.

"Why me?" she heard herself asking. "Why not Cora? Or Regina?" Were there other deals, other players, she didn't know about?

Why was it always _her?_

Hook was not at all surprised by her doubt. In truth, he seemed a tad dismayed by the interrogation though when he eventually sought her attention, it was an altogether different air that he bestowed. It was far from accusing. He was actually solemn. She could see it in his eyes. It made her dreadfully conspicuous to him, conscious of herself in ways she was unaccustomed to experiencing in most company, let alone his. If she were naïve, she would have thought the look personal.

She would have named it remorse.

Instinctively, she lowered her gaze but he reached out somewhere halfway, putting his only thumb and forefinger to where her chin dimpled. He lifted it ever so slightly to contemplate her. The gesture was serious, light as a feather and far too meaningful to be misread. A chill meandered down her spine. If he so desired, he could end her. Starkly, she knew, that he'd had the chance before.

He took his hand away and as simply as that, the interlude expired. Bewildered, Emma wondered at the mockery he'd made of her or if he was actually conflicted at what he had done – what he was planning to do, whatever that was. The mix of vulnerability and insight she had at that moment was unbelievably stressful.

"Because of your heart," he eventually admitted. "A useful thing when it can't be taken, isn't that right?"

The suggestibility of that particular statement roused some of her former agitation: did anything about her escape his notice?

"You saw what happened with Cora," she guessed unnecessarily. "All this time, you were playing us _and _you were playing her. Was there ever a moment when you weren't safeguarding your own interests?"

His retort was unflappable. "Hardly an unjustifiable position, considering that the noble saviour herself saw fit to discard me without so much as a reason. Forgive me for…surviving."

Begrudgingly, she conceded that Hook had a point.

Her skin was clammy around the vial and it itched to be free of it. She itched all over. It was an uncommon sensation, an unwanted one. It was curiosity, whim. It was so much more. She realised that the paths they were on held no meaning by themselves. The path drew meaning from the things it connected. Chances, risk. Faith. They were one and the same.

Emma was having a hard time letting go. "So why give me the water?" she pressed. "If I'm so _magical_, what's to stop me from using it against you?"

"These things are, how do I say? _Complicated._ Your parents, your friends, their memories were brought back when you broke the curse. You, my dear, remain in exile. You had no memory of home to begin with. By giving you the water, I had hoped to return to you what was lost: your magic. Your birthright. With it, you would be more powerful than any potion, any curse. A formidable ally to have, so speak, in hand."

"But…?"

"But you've given me nothing," he concluded, sounding unimpressed.

The bottle was now hot in her grip and she consulted it again. Unfurling, she detected a faint scar on her palm from where she'd cut herself on the beanstalk. Her polish was thoroughly chipped. How much time passed, Emma could not guess, but it seemed the fastest decision she'd ever made, to unstopper the vial and drink.

Hook sequestered the bottle grimly, taking it from her numbed hands and wrapping it with one of the several scarves he had lying about the room. He said nothing as he sealed it in a tiny drawer at his desk. Dully, Emma observed him. When his hand pulled out, the fabric of his shirt stretched along his wrist and she blanched.

She tasted the word.

"Milah."

His movements came to a standstill.

"What did you say?"

Her mind did a backflip. A tumble. She felt resistance and pain, and a nonsensical panic, as if her body were an ignition someone was trying and failing to turn. Over and over, it stuttered.

_Milah. Milah._

_Swan. Swan…Swan!_

She gasped in fright. Her eyes flew open and widened at the sight in front of her. Hook had an arm on her shoulder, shaking, shouting a name. Flushed with joy, she peered at him as if he were something else. Something welcome. Something familiar. Something lost and now returned. Tears glossed her pupils. Her hands were warm when they breached his neck.

"_You_," she breathed upon his mouth.


	2. Chapter 2

He fixed the spyglass on the stern, where the low-hanging clouds met their reflection in the sea. Fittingly, the ocean was a mirror; redoubling back on him in much the same way his thoughts had been since Emma kissed him.

Or whoever that was.

_You know who it was_, _fool._

He cast about some more. Hours were wasting. To compound the loss of time, his only passenger was asleep – if sleep was the word to describe what magic did to a person when the dead possessed them. And she'd dropped like an anchor after clinging so convincingly to him. Hook often larked about women swooning at his feet. It was, of course, exaggeration.

The small peninsula that separated the town's harbour from open water was no longer visible now that dusk had arrived. Hook idled suspiciously at the fife rails. Trepidation flavoured his thoughts. As ever, a pirate was quick to blame the weather but a slave to his superstitions. Whichever way he considered it, the atmosphere was relentlessly off-kilter. He remembered a similar evening in Neverland when the moon dropped from the sky and the darkness swallowed each and every star. No light could withstand the advancing gloom. A foul suspense overtook his crew when it seemed to dissolve the very boards beneath their feet. It was not a night he cared to revisit.

His unfamiliarity with New England eventide notwithstanding, the air was sultry, his ship lulled, and the waters that cradled her, reverently still in some ungodly anticipation. His was willing to concede Gold's potion some unpredictability, some taint. Hook had a plan for every contingency, however it was not in his nature to admit defeat, even less, to entertain the prospect that his own wayward desires were to blame for the capricious turn of events. He kept his hand on the rails and calculated the odds, leaning over and scouring the brimming tide. Upon the ocean's complexion he saw a stern face, the gelatinous glimmer of his mainsail and the rain-soaked sky beyond. Nothing had altered terribly but there was little egress in sight.

The enchantment, what should have been an easy test for Emma's newly replenished abilities, remained imperiously intact. Some vital aspect had shifted. Crickets, gulls and the laughter of loon birds were missing, and at the perimeter of the _Jolly Roger_, a pale blur of light had halted from where it slipped past the eclipse of the ever-darkening clouds. When he glided his free arm through it, it lit up his hand, exposing the knuckled bones underneath.

Distastefully, he reared back. Behind him, a hatch opened.

Emma's blond curls preceded her as she made her way to the quarterdeck, sidling prettily through the arch and into the open air. She had a blanket drawn around her, tied assuredly at the shoulder. She looked rapturously at the frozen sky. It was something he had seen before, perchance many times.

_Milah._

The name was a wilful thing; so many phantoms attached to it, bobbing into reach then falling through the ever-widening gulley of his memory. Where they went, he could not fathom. Somewhere, he supposed. A place no portal could ever convey him.

Until now.

The disguise of magic was no astonishment though he would be hard-pressed to deny its magnetism. Whatever the bewitchment, it tempted him sorely, and in the visage of Emma Swan standing so suggestively above him, it was beyond a man as determined as Hook to try and refuse it. Magic, for so long a hindrance and a thief, seemed to him an undeniable fortuity. Three hundred years of scheming stripped to the most rudimentary arithmetic. Daggers, beans, compasses and wardrobe ashes. He was meant to steal the potion from Rumplestiltskin, just as Emma was fated to drink from it. Briefly, he wondered if this was how his nemesis had felt when the deal was struck and the dark powers finally summoned, what the siren's call sounded to the ears of less desperate men than he.

What was lost, soon recovered.

It was a shaming comparison. The solution that magic presented was quixotic but it was far too simple for his tastes. Magic was leverage, plain and simple. He would sooner die than suffer the vanity of mastery.

He stared down her back as he made his way over. He was happy to throttle the deception out of her, if it came to it – and he had a feeling it would, if past experience was any indicator. He knew this woman well, better than most. She would fight. He was sincerely counting on it, for both their sakes.

But she turned at the last moment, tranquil and remote, flickering like an image in a pool of water. Her head dropped and with half her face in shadow, she regarded him. From the bud of her lips, his namesake fell.

"Killian Jones," Emma admonished. "You look at me as if I were a stranger."

* * *

It was enough to say that the words contradicted the person.

The contradiction was personified most unfairly and it both enervated and disheartened him because a small, perverse part of Hook wanted to test the incongruity further, not as compensation for his loss but to satiate the wounded pride that still sought to punish Emma, to rebuke her endless and utter interference in his plans. To impress upon her that he could have ended her life at the lake, that he was under no obligations to return the heart of the princess, that he could have drugged her, taken advantage of her current state and conducted all manner of retaliatory exploits, that there had been more opportunities than he could recall to make arrangements with dark powers and he had chosen his moments to bargain more prudently than most could ever claim to, had the opportunity been theirs. That, kidnapping aside, it was left to her to agree to any alliance with him. He was not above extending a cordial invitation to discuss such matters but in light of the abuse he normally suffered in her company and the singular urgency of his pursuits, she'd left him no choice.

Twenty-eight years he'd endured with the patience of a monk and this was his recompense? More trickery, more delay. Scores were long past the point of overdue. He had in mind the livid urge the light a match and set fire to the whole damned town. He'd outwitted greater challenges before. He could find a way.

Hook had much and more to say about this, and every intention to when the Swan girl sashayed disarmingly close, gutting the speech from his throat while she practically danced to him. Slender arms swam out to him from the cover of the blanket. They landed symmetrically on his collar.

"Darling." She searched him confusedly. The expectancy of her upturned face was unkindly close. "Why do you treat me so cold?"

His jaw locked at the endearment. With difficulty, he turned from her. "You are not yourself."

"No?"

There were no more words to say to that. He was unsure whom he was saying them to. For a rare time, he found himself at a loss.

"If I'm not myself," she mused aloud, playing at mystification. "Then pray tell, who am I…? Hmm?"

_The Swan girl. Emma._

The same girl drew up to him, fingers laddering his coat to where his throat was showing. She threaded his necklets through her small, fine fingers, reflecting tenderly on the crude ornaments they held. The smile she wore was natural, fond and on Emma's perpetually wary face, the expression was a marvel. This time around, Hook could not help but stare.

"Tell me again," she murmured, "how you came upon these charms?"

Despite the awful proximity, he clung to his wits. "Souvenirs," he drolly returned.

The marionette made a little huffing noise. "You talk a tall tale, Jones. You were less cavalier about these trinkets the night I met you." Unsuspecting, caught off guard by the intimacy of her voice and all its suggestions, he found his face gripped. Bone-cold strength held him in check.

"_Am I so easily forgotten_?" she asked in a terrible, fractured whisper.

He wrenched himself from her. Disappointingly, his opponent fronted minimum resistance, yet another confirmation of the potion's errancy. Unlike herself, and so alike another, she tolerated his conflicted exertions. He batted her arms away and half-heartedly cuffed her neck to hold her against the railing. Limp as a ragdoll, she had no need for any weapon. Her resignation stung enough.

Threateningly, he pressed.

"I _do not_ forget."

The look she gave to that was remarkable. Superficially, she was upset. Superficially, she was still Emma. He could feel the rougher ends of her hair on the back of his hand, the fragility of each tendon in her neck. There, the resemblance ended.

Whoever this siren claimed to be was infinitely more transparent than her host. Her face was a theatre of unguarded emotion. The shade of her eyes darkened as the hurt unravelled and each passing second spent under them, every beat her lashes made, each tense blink, challenged him wholeheartedly. In the half-light, she could have been anyone. He could almost remember. He was speechless, belligerent, flummoxed. The hand that was holding her climbed upwards and branched out experimentally, touching her as if she were porcelain.

"_Who are you_?"

The woman in front of him startled and wavered. A falter, some involuntary twitch related to confusion, ruffled her delicate features, wafting her hand back where it had been reaching up to his. Bereft, it clutched at her side. Emma glanced around like a panicked animal until she raised her head. Accusation steadied her gaze. It was the exact replica of the face Hook provoked from behind the bars of Rumplestiltskin's cell.

_Actually…I did._

He let out an audible, if ragged, sigh of relief.

Sternly, her voice quivered. "What the hell just happened? What did you do to me?"

The only explanation he could muster to that was to let her go. It was like releasing a tightly coiled rope: ever so swiftly, she spun from his reach the moment the contact was lost.

Emma rubbed unnecessarily at her neck. "Don't bother." It was a consolation mumbled more to herself than to her audience. "I'm outta here."

To punctuate the decision, she ripped the cover from her shoulders like she was rending it in half, so aggressively that it threw her already compromised balance. Once again, her eagerness to be a thousand leagues from him sent her careening in the opposite direction. At the edge of the steps she reeled. He had her arm gripped before she injured herself.

"Do you want to get off this ship or break a leg? It pains me to say this, Emma, but this might be the only scenario where you can't have it both ways."

"Jesus _christ_," she swatted strongly, annoyed. "Will you just – haven't you done _enough_-" Another elbow met his chest which he blunted mercilessly, circling her completely, now completely and absolutely infuriated at the blame she so brazenly flung his way.

"May I _remind_ you," he gritted, squeezing as if it were the only method capable of getting his point across. "That _you _were the one who drained that potion as if your very life depended on it."

She wriggled in his agitated embrace.

"Did I hold a gun to your head?"

"Buddy," Emma spat, pushing her head forward, defiantly unperturbed by how near it brought her to his mouth, "if there was a gun you can rest assured it wouldn't be pointed at my head."

Wherever she ducked, his face followed. "Don't play the victim here, Emma. Your actions were not the consequence of provocation. You wanted this."

The last accusation scraped near enough to the truth to stun her, just as he knew it would. Drawing taller in the confined space of his locked arms, she levelled with him all the same and summoned a frightful glare from her extensive repertoire. It was trained to intimidate but he was not the pushover she imagined in this instance. She was implicated and she knew it. Each unchecked moment he stared back, the dilation of her pupils, the tic of her brow, Hook tallied as a victory.

The advantage was decidedly bittersweet. All it once, she seemed uneasy and dimly, crouching behind the anger he was experiencing, hovered a very ordinary observation.

She was hiding something.

"What is it you remember?" He had to know.

The perceptiveness of his question changed Emma's expression immediately. Her eyes stammered away from his and, slowly, she drew breath, preparing to bellow or sob or do something equally drastic. She only looked up, facing him in as open and forthright a manner as her conscience allowed. He sensed the small concession she was making in the effort. _Don't ask me that_, he read.

Hook considered his options. On the one hand, it was potentially a tactic. On the other, through the haze of her own outrage, she was imploring him to quit while he was ahead since he was perceptive enough to gather that her answer would not help matters. But she broke the claustrophobic exchange first.

"I'm not your puppet," Emma muttered, tetchily.

At this, he sharpened his inquiry, scrutinising and combing for tells. It came to his attention that she had yet to stamp his foot or knee him, all of which were feasible now that he had fractionally yielded his guard. Each one of her fisted hands had unclasped. She held her ground. An unremarkable stance had it not been for its weariness, the greatest indication that there was now an infinitesimal disorder in the complicated design of Emma Swan. Underneath, she was anxious, struggling to assimilate it into a believable attitude of reproach. The slight relent of the grip he had around her back confirmed it. She didn't move. Painfully, she swallowed. He could feel its coarseness.

Again, he searched her face. "You think I engineered this?"

"I think you're desperate enough, yes." But she fidgeted unsurely, not fully convinced herself, and wholly discomforted by his wounded attention. "Look. I don't know – I don't know what to think. Not when I know-" Emma rolled her shoulders violently as if her whole body were rejecting the incoming thought. "No. Just…let me _go_."

Hook snapped his arm tight across her waist. "Not when you know _what_?"

She strained to peer up. While the remnants of her original irritation pinched her nose, her face was altogether trickier to read. Sadness began to blur it the longer she studied him. "It doesn't matter. It won't fix it." Stilted breaths were rending the argument she was trying to make. "Whatever it is. Whatever I remember. I can't…convince you."

"Convince me?"

"I'm sorry," she said, unhearing, staring down; a touch surprised at her own confession. "I actually – I really am."

"…You're sorry? Emma." Hook relinquished her and stepped back. It was dread, not courtesy, which urged his retreat. "For what?"

In her odd clothes, her masculine boots, with her hands dangling haplessly at her sides, deprived of any weapon or cause, she seemed to him strangely diminished; stricken in the place where he'd left her.

"I broke it, didn't I? The magic. I screwed it up again."

She refused to meet his eyes and it was an effort to follow her, since she was speaking somewhat rhetorically. And perhaps the dread prevented him from fully engaging with what she was trying to convey. Emma continued, nonetheless.

"You loved her," she stated flatly, though not without sensitivity. "You loved her and I, I've ruined your chance. I broke it. All of it. But I couldn't be responsible if it hurt anyone. I couldn't handle it if I…" Emma searched for adequate terms; gave up. "You have to understand that I never wanted this. I never _asked _for any of this. And now there's so much I have to lose, so much…expectation. I just need to keep them safe."

The disconnected words made scarce sense, yet in them Hook was privy to something he keenly recognised. He had the sudden impulse to console her. By necessity, he resisted.

Emma lifted her chin to lend some dignity to her declaration. It trembled ever so slightly now that she was facing him. "I can't be what everyone wants – and I know they look to me to make things right but they're wrong. They're so wrong. They don't know me. Not even my parents. They don't know the things I've done…There's something wrong, I think." Another painful, deprecating swallow passed through her yet she persisted bravely on. "With me." She waved in illustration at herself. "This."

Hook looked away and for some time said nothing. The curve of his artificial hand made a pensive pass under his jaw.

"She loved you," he could hear her quietly offering him. "That's all I remember. She loved you but she never forgot him."

Carefully, he turned and from opposite ends of an unspoken question, they once again addressed each other.

"Her son." They lingered in that space a moment longer. "Hook," she implored, "you have to let me find him."

Unaware of the memories she had gratified, Emma merely awaited his response. Before he had time to properly comprehend the revelation, he found himself giving a curt nod. She could not know that it was the first full detail he'd recovered since losing all trace of her in the span of his unnaturally long existence. Though the memory was not happy it remained and he would keep it by whatever means possible. "Let's not speak of that," he said eventually. It was not offered unkindly. He was not refusing her.

"It wasn't your fault," she blurted, her voice fumbling with the delicacy of the subject. "She wanted to look at life for herself but she was trapped. You gave her that. You..." Uncomfortably, she glanced off. "Fought for her."

"Yes, well, clearly I didn't fight hard enough."

He could sense her treating this rare admission carefully and what's worse, he didn't need to look at her to know it, yet he felt himself steered around, when her contemplation extended.

Sadly, she smiled at him. "You fought more than most."

Emma went quiet after this and, sensing nothing further from him in turn, crouched to the deck. He followed her movements as she retrieved the blanket, smoothing it momentarily before gathering it up. Her attentions were focused dutifully on the act. Like a despondent soldier, she bundled the shawl around one forearm, folding the item into itself as if she were gathering all her worldly possessions to march off into the sunset. The nobleness of it was inadvertent, yet it struck him deeply and before she withdrew herself entirely, he sought cause to intervene. Catching the end, he unravelled the blanket and in the lapse of her confusion, placed it back where it should have remained, lifting the drape of her long hair and resting its weight upon her shoulders. His one hand loitered close to the heat of her neck, indecisive enough for her to permit it without actually forfeiting the seriousness of what had just transpired. On his part, it was not intended as a seduction. She was entirely too lovely to be trifled with.

Emma had nevertheless drawn tight. Alarm and suspicion honed her assessment of him. Gently, he ignored it, stroking up and around her ear, her cheek, the corner of her lips, wherever his considerations led him. Wherever she wanted.

"A man unwilling to fight for you, lass, deserves what he gets."

Colour leaped upon her face, taken aback by the directness of his opinion for a second until the aloofness returned. It was a half-hearted bid. Her eyelashes were still aflutter.

"And what's that, exactly?" Emma tested.

Hook fixed on her in a way that implied the extent of his disapproval.

"Contempt."

She didn't believe him, or wasn't prepared to; that much was evident and it was as much his fault for tempting it as it was a necessary condition of her cynicism. Still, she remained for a time unwilling to move from him, accepting his touch like it was a formality he extended in gratitude only. Hook was dismayed.

After a while, she spoke. "What would it be worth, to have her back?" she asked, unsure, her eyes silvery in the shade. "If I…" Again, she paused and the sheer reluctance of it lent an unbearable earnestness to the proposal she was drawing out. "If I could bring her back, for a time. Would that be enough? ...Would you stop?"

By the time she was finished, her mask had all but fallen. The resulting exposure, the tender that Emma's self-sacrificing spirit was willing to make for the benefit of everyone but herself, exposed Hook in kind. He felt wretched, cold-blooded and cruel. Some portion of this was expressed when he reached up and raked his fingers through her hair to hold her head. It wasn't soft. Disbelievingly, he inspected her.

"You do not know what you offer me," he warned.

"I don't," Emma conceded, in a tone he had never heard her use before. "But she does."

His throat constricted. Some compassionate impulse, unsteady and unused, kept him from responding. The instinct told him that she was retreating, that at some crucial point in the course of her proposition, despite the candidness with which she issued it, she was bracing herself for the worst. That he might consent. That the chance she was taking on him was designed to prove her wrong, whatever he said.

And so he said nothing. Unthinking, he pressed nearer, which Emma mistook as an invitation to reach into his coat and take the vial she cannily figured he had pocketed there. His gaze travelled the length of her arm then back to her and somewhere afterward, between him wresting the potion and her look of query when he lowered it and kicked it uncaringly with his boot to roll aimlessly down the deck, they were gazing at each other. The exchange was full on either side, especially hers, charged with fear, and other nameless things too indistinct to be spoken.

Her mouth opened. A supple, wet sound emerged, like a lick of water against the hull and before any deflection or discouragement could dispel the sweet evocation, breaking whatever tentative agreement they were about to make with their bodies, Hook leaned in, angled his face to hers and slowly pulled the zipper of her jacket down. Once opened, she gravitated toward him. The blanket collapsed to the ground again. They were both unconcerned. Under and around her waist, Hook wound his arm. The fabric of her clothes was thinner there, the skin warmer and when he had her sufficiently hoisted, he touched her lips, brushing suggestively back and forth until she finally slid her arms around his neck and dropped thoroughly into the kiss he was intimating. He closed his eyes quickly. The sensation was new, altogether too difficult to think through. All he understood was that he didn't want to rush it. Now that they were here, he wanted to explore her, thaw her out gradually, to persuade and assure each and every one of the affections he imagined she might bestow him. Emma, however, was growing restless, rolling about the edges of where they were connected, encouraging him to take it further. Under instruction, he mouthed his way down her neck to the concave hollow at the juncture of her throat, biting dully across, a little frustrated to have to leave the kiss when it had only just begun. When he hadn't quite figured her out. When he was so wondrously close to. Daringly, he took her earlobe between his teeth and the sound she made to that, low and fitful, offered a few enticing clues.

Uncaring, her fingers scratched the nape of his neck, her legs nudging at his, hurrying him to move back or step forward or pick her up. It was becoming despairingly difficult to tell.

He kissed the secretive spot behind the shell of her ear and she shuddered but it was with measure, not haste, that he moved his mouth back to hers, drawing circles on the small of her back like she was in pain, trying to calm her, focus her, subside the panic he was detecting.

"Emma," he urged intently. "Emma, stop. Look at me."

Her face was in disarray, her chest, heaving. Hook pulled back and entreated her again. Slowly dipping, like her arms as they dropped from him, the light began to vanish from their surrounds. It was night already. He could feel it listening.

"What is this?"

The answer he received was troubling. Forcibly, she pressed her lids down against whatever was welling behind them; queenly turned her cheek askance.

Rather more meaningfully than before, he said her name. "_Emma_."

Her eyes returned to him and the allusion of composure graced her features. "Its ok," she lied.

"No," he told her, but she nodded it away with an awful smile. The lie was implicit in it, and if he was incapable of telling her so, then at least his actions were more compelling. "Its not." He brushed a canopy of mussed hair from her forehead, from where she was hiding. "Whatever you're thinking right now, you're mistaken."

It was unfathomable to him that she would endure this kind of negligence, that she would suffer it to spare others; that she would still think him so incalculably pitiless in spite of the honesty he had disclosed. He'd laid out his cards entirely. There was no bluff for her to call. Instead, she was apologising for forcing his hand.

The implication left him bewildered because his experience with a thing as bruised and unyielding as the woman in front of him was extremely limited. He only knew himself and it had been a long time since another threw that into such sure relief.

It was not a pleasant reflection but he was no longer pressured by misgivings and ruthless determinations, nor in mind to be swayed by any of hers, however gallantly she delivered them. He was unsure how long it would last. It didn't presently matter. Hook tilted Emma's face up and placed a staying, almost apologetic kiss upon the peak of her forehead. Leaving no opportunity to protest, he pled several more down her cheek. In supplication, he met her mouth, kissing tenderly there once, twice and again, pausing to watch her after each. Something was giving way. Her eyes had closed and the sound of the air she sucked in and then breathed out, sighing and falling, seemed to soften her. It was after considerable deliberation that she kissed him back but there was a difference to it. She was deliberate. The more her mouth answered his, the more she opened up for him, juddering along the length of his body, warming her palms all the way up his stomach and flattening them along the broad plane of his chest. It was not to restrain. Tentatively, she held the contact.

Emma's scent possessed traces of her restive sleep, mellow undertones of sweat and an apple she'd evidently sourced from his quarters and eaten. Here and there, in her hair and near her neck, he faintly detected perfume, something smooth and honeyed underneath the surface. Absorbed in this precious inventory, he ran his thumb along her lower lip and let her brush her nose against his cheek, mumbling distantly for him and while he catalogued this rarity, he saw, clearly and regrettably, the inevitable end. The enchantment that held them in place had suddenly expired.

Wind was lashing at the tautly bundled sails and ropes, making flintier sounds further off in the distance where it plucked through the cedar trees. The buffeted creaks, the discontented murmurings of his ship, drew them apart. Storybrooke's lights now dotted the horizon. A chill had broadened in the fuller, fairer air.

Emma locked her arms around her torso, sucking in her breath at the cold. Though it required only a step in her direction, it was too late to offer any cover. The gesture now seemed absurd. Incomprehensibly, he was almost formal, awaiting the arrival of her former self with his head trained to the side, as if she were dressing.

Less comprehensible, was the compulsion that led him to proffer his hand, take hers and lead her, rather dazedly, starboard, down to where the ship was docked to a rickety, abandoned pier. With his hook, he reached and lifted the gangway over; nodding brusquely to the clearing of trees fringing the periphery.

"Go," he said.

Motionless, her eyes darted between him and the pier.

"Its now or never, darling."

She was a quick study. She had the presence of mind to not to probe his uncharacteristic change of heart, and in an instant her jacket was zipped up to her chin and a booted sole readied at the top of the footway. Though there was no longer anything holding her in place, she hesitated nonetheless, looking at him in wordless acknowledgement before leaping athletically up and off.

The admiration he felt was akin to something unreachable. The road would be easy enough for someone like Emma to find, yet the long strides she took, the surety in her straight back, spoke intimately of her previous life and not for the first time, Hook noted the fierce confidence in her, when left to the safety of her own devices. She didn't glance back. He did not exist. He was forgotten.

Grimly, he watched her, until she disappeared.


End file.
